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Eivor runs his finger over the four tiny holes carved into the horn. “My people were seafaring warriors renowned for raiding and pillaging throughout all the continents of Uro, Isa, Faric, and Norica. My brothers and I were actually the first Östmen to voyage to Norica, only to be forced back to sea. In our haste, we sailed off course, and I’m sure you can guess the rest of the story.”

“You sailed somewhere unknown and nearly met a grim fate before Risna took pity on you?” I tease.

Risna clucks from her perch. “Sounds about right.”

“And I was livid she sired me,” he says.

“Oh, I remember your rage all too well, childe of mine.” She swipes a vibrant blue-green across the canvas, eyes flicking up and down as she takes in the view. “Tantrums day in and day out. It was exhausting.”

My eyebrows lift. “How come? She saved you from Death.”

“In my culture, dying is a great honor. Risna ripped that away from me with a single bite.” He lets out a breathy laugh. “But I soon realized I wasn’t angry with her. I was angry with myself for wanting to live, and I knew my family would’ve been extremely disappointed in me for not embracing Death when she called on me.”

“I know what you mean,” I say.

All my life, sand has slipped through an hourglass, grain by inevitable grain, counting down the seconds before Vivvy would take my life. Like Eivor, Death had called on me, and Quill… he denied her. He stole me away from that altar, from my family’s expectations, and from Death herself, and offered me immortality.

After our visit to Nightfell, I sank into the silken sheets of my bed, bone tired and lost in my thoughts. Round and round, I tried to imagine the terse conversations and horrible words Father and Viv have likely exchanged since I’ve been reborn. That was, until I realized I don’t particularly care what they have to say about me. Father has never been a good man, and Vivvy… she was never my sister.

I’m your sister.

No, you’re my sacrifice.

I push the memory aside and focus on the vampire who is bearing his own shame and longing for something more. It’s oddly freeing and terribly scary and wildly comforting all at once to know I have something so personal in common with him.

I rest my hand on his knee. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

“Thank you for listening.” He gestures to the horn. “Would you like me to play you a song?”

Risna’s hand freezes mid-stroke at Eivor’s question.

“I’d love that,” I say, scooching over and patting the space next to me for Risna.

She sighs as if it’s a great ask to pause her creating, but her smile says otherwise as she sets down her paintbrush and claims her spot on the quilt, shoulder pressing against mine.

Eivor begins to play.

The notes are high and soft, similar to those of an ivory flute as he pushes air through the rigid horn. His fingers move deftly over the small holes, changing the tempo of the music that pours out around us. I watch him lose himself to the movement and the sound. His eyelids flutter shut, his cheeks puffing and decompressing with each blow. I can almost picture him and his family, all fair-skinned with the same shade of wheat blond hair, dancing around a fire, laughing and drinking, after a hard day at sea.

A sense of wonder fills me as he plays this ancient instrument with such delicate precision. It’s beautiful and enchanting and time-transcending.

It ends all too soon.

“Incredible,” I whisper, knowing he hears me over the crashing waves.

“My mother used to play that song for my brothers and me whenever we’d return from a sea trial or voyage.” He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “And when the animals we kept misbehaved.”

There’s a gentleness curved into Eivor’s smile I haven’t seen before as he speaks of his mother, his brothers. Even though Eivor lost his family so long ago, his love for them has never faded. Here he is, centuries later, still recalling memories and honoring their legacy.

Do the dead ever really die if someone is still around to keep their memory alive?

Risna’s eyes glint playfully as she says, “If that’s the case, you should teach me how to play that tune for when you’re misbehaving, heathen.”

“Absolutely not,” Eivor says, setting the instrument down and rising from the blanket. “You may be an actress and an artist, Ris, but you’re definitely not a songbird.”

He winks before heading across the beach to spar with Quill and Carver.

“I should’ve let him rot,” she says, sitting up. “Quill mentioned you’d like to learn how to read palms. Give me your hand, and I’ll show you how.”